


your eyes close with my dreams

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon, featuring my most beloved with goofballs from Real Madrid, with a healthy dash of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2532500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Real Madrid is in Liverpool for the Champions League match and Iker discovers that in addition to the city being too gloomy and too chilly, he also cannot sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your eyes close with my dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the prompt, "Sergio Ramos/Iker Casillas; you're the glitter in the dark, you're the train that crashed my heart"

 

The night air in Liverpool is a few bracing degrees below crisp, the breeze dragging like chilled fingers against the back of his neck as Iker tugs on the handle of his rolling suitcase, dragging it behind him up the steps onto the plane. The dreary ever-present drizzle that has accompanied them since them arrival has graciously stopped and Iker can make out a brief smattering of stars, a slender curve of a waning moon. A shiver dances up his spine until he indulges in it, one-handedly trying to pull the collar of his coat up around his throat before stepping into the welcoming warmth inside. It’s a half hour to midnight, but after two nights of broken fits of slumber and wakefulness, he resigns himself to consciousness for the entirety of the plane ride home.

He picks a seat toward the front of the plane, as always, left hand side, beside the window. His fingers scrounge around inside of his luggage until the tips of them brush against the perfectly rigid spine of the novel he’s been reading ( _La Sombra Del Viento_ , masterful and evocative, despite the author’s place of birth) and slides it out. There’s the hint of a headache swirling behind his eyes as he drops down into the seat, tips his head back against the rest. He can feel the canyons that have carved themselves underneath his eyes, formed hollows that make the rest of his face feels suddenly too tight, stretched too harshly over the jutting curve of his bones. Exhaustion drapes itself comfortably over him, a tightness in his calves, a lazy throb in his triceps, an insistent ache in the back of his shoulders. He’s untangling his headphones when Marcelo drops down into the seat beside Iker’s book, his usual grin plastered over his cheerful face. Moments like this, Iker understands why the others sometime call him “sunshine,” the easy way in which his mere presence eases something of the tension in his limbs, like rays of sunlight gleaming comfortingly onto too-cool skin.

_“Hola, capitán.”_

_“Hola.”_

The noise turns up a decibel as the rest of the team trickles in, surprisingly awake considering the lateness of the hour. Out of the corner of his eye, Iker manages to catch the mischievous glint in Pepe’s eyes as he drags a slightly bewildered-looking James into the tiny airplane kitchen. Ancelotti frowns disapprovingly at their antics, clearing his throat loudly as he stands with his hands on his hips, every bit the stern headmaster.

“Again, job well done, let’s keep this up.” He stops to look pointedly at Pepe, joined now by Chicharito, who has the misfortune of holding up a bottle of Ketel One at that exact moment. He lowers it very slowly with a sheepish look on his face once he realizes everyone’s looking in his direction.  “You all still have practice tomorrow, and I don’t have to remind you that the next game is the most important one. Act accordingly.”

He turns his steely gaze towards each of them in turn, nodding before heading off to the very back of the plane to wile away the next couple of hours in slumber. Iker’s coaxes apart the pages of the book, thumb resting on the top corner as he blinks down at the words, hearing rather than seeing Marcelo leaving his seat. It’s only five minutes later that he returns, James and Pepe collapsing noisily into the seats behind them, their conversation dimming to a distant hum as Iker pops in his headphones. He makes it through 10 whole pages (a feat he would never have managed with Sergio around) before he’s interrupted by an elbow jabbing his side, light enough not to bruise but rough enough that it draws a noise of protest from the goalkeeper.

“Psst, Iker, wanna hear a secret?”

“Probably not,” he mutters, but lets the book fall closed with a finger still holding his place while he turns to raise an eyebrow at Marcelo. “But go ahead.”

“We won the game today,” he whispers conspiratorially.

The other eyebrow lifts as his forehead furrows, wondering exactly how much vodka the Brazilian could’ve consumed in only five minutes before Iker notices the teasing flicker of the corner of his mouth, understands that he’s joking. He flicks the inside of Marcelo’s elbow with enough of his nail that he issues a tiny little yelp in reply.

“Ay, I was only telling you because you don’t look like a man who just played one of the most renowned teams in Europe and kept his sheet spotless for the whole thing. You look almost as terrible as a _culé_.”

Iker’s hand flutters in the air, hinting at another attack before Marcelo shakes his head at him.

“ _Caralho_ , you’re so tense tonight. What’s wrong, San Iker?” The Spaniard glares at him for the nickname, fingers closing to form a fist and shaking harmlessly at him before dropping his hand onto his lap.

“It is only pre-Clásico jitters, I think,” he begins, though he knows it is not the truth, at least not the whole of it. The genuine concern in Marcelo’s eyes, the half-tilt of his head as he watches him closely makes Iker add, “And Liverpool and I did not get along. I didn’t sleep well here.”

Marcelo’s smile softens, a gentle curve of his mouth as he nods in such unquestioning understanding that Iker feels suddenly vulnerable, like he’s been peeled apart carefully apart and all the tenderness is exposed.

“What?” Iker wonders aloud, curiosity winning out over his carefully honed instincts.

“It’s not here,” Marcelo replies, and Iker’s brows knit together in  discomfort, looking away as the other man continues. “It’s not the here that bothers you, it’s the _now_.”

“You wasted your talents on being a footballer, _tio_. Such wisdom. Now let me read in peace.”

He curls away with his lips still pursed together in a thin line, his back turning outward as his shoulders hunch forward protectively, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the specific and delightfully distant fears and worries of the storyteller. He slides the earbuds back into place as well, the rhythmic rasp of Alejandro Sanz’ voice soothingly deep as it filters out from the speakers. Nearly an hour and a half passes away unnoticed, wandering through the streets of a past-Barcelona, a place for restless souls and recklessly curious fools. It bears such little resemble with the city he is acquainted with that he finds himself charmed by the forgotten little streets, the grandiose manors full of history and pretension, touched beyond expectation by the mundane tragedy of human happenstance that unfolds. It is no Madrid, but it has its own grace. He reads until his already tired eyes protest from the strain, traversing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger in a steady massage.

With a heavy exhale, he drops the book onto the seat between them and turns again, facing back towards the center of the plane, finding Marcelo’s body contorted in the seat so that he can peer over the top of the headrest and carry on a conversation with Pepe, and Cristiano, who has joined them. James is trying to pay attention but his eyelids droop heavily and he has a hand curled underneath his cheek as it rests against the back of the seat. When he feels Iker’s eyes on him, the Brazilian turns with a smile made wider by alcohol and eyes just on the verge of going glazy. The Spaniard knows well what this stage of the drunken process entails, has suffered through many a plane ride with one member of his team or another feeling the need to confess his every last sin to the “saint.” He’s almost managed to smother the urge to groan when Marcelo claps a hand onto his shoulder.

“Better?”

_“Un poquito.”_

“You should talk with us, _cara_. Marcelo keeps going on and on about marriage. That’d bore anyone to sleep,” Pepe chimes in from the seat behind them and Iker can’t tamp down on the snort of amusement that escapes. Marcelo nearly climbs halfway up his seat to whack the Portuguese across the shoulder.

“Why? Having marriage troubles?” Iker taunts but it’s toothless when he sends a smirk the defender’s way, crossing his arms over his chest. He supposes he shouldn’t but it’s too easy not to, and besides, he thinks he deserves to get his own back for Marcelo’s earlier prying into his feelings.  

“No! This _babaca_ ,” Marcelo huffs, waving dismissively in Iker’s direction. “I was only trying to help Pepe and Cristiano see the error of their ways. Especially Cris. You won’t be young forever, _menino_.”

Cristiano’s eyebrow climbs his forehead as he scoffs at Marcelo.

“You’re younger than me, _fedelho_! And I am fine. Worry about Pepe, he doesn’t have my good looks to rely on.” Cristiano lets out something that can only be described as a squeal when Pepe pinches his bicep hard enough to leave a mark. Iker rolls his eyes as they lazily swat at one another.

“ _Si_ , I’m the younger one,” Marcelo mutters.

“Now is not the time. She is in New York, I am here, we are both very busy all the time. Besides, it has not been five years,” Cristiano adds, as though that explains everything. Marcelo stares blankly at him until he continues.

“It takes five years to really know someone, if they’re right for you, if you will be able to make it work together. You don’t know enough of each other before then.”

“It’s not a matter of timing,” a soft voice interrupts, deep with the suggestion of slumber. They all turn, nearly in unison, to look at James as he stifles a yawn and blinks at them. “Marriage isn’t about how long you’ve known them. When you’re…” He trails off, pushing himself up slightly on his elbows as he faces them, but his eyes are focused beyond their faces in introspection.

“It’s not about all that. It’s just about love. It’s about not being able to imagine your life without them, or imagining it and knowing it’s less. It’s not something you think about, you just know. You feel it, in your bones, inside of you. Like a pulse. Steady.” He looks at their faces, Pepe’s amusement, Marcelo’s admiring glance, Iker’s interest, and Cristiano’s look of wonderment, and feels his cheeks heat as a slow blush blooms over it. He shrugs as an afterthought. “At least for me.”

“No, it is this. It is exactly this!” Marcelo exclaims, holding out his hand for a clasping handshake that James meets with a loud clap. “ _Meu filho_.”

Iker’s laugh rumbles out of his chest, shaking his head wryly.

“This one’s a therapist,” he remarks, motioning toward Marcelo with his chin, before tilting his head toward James. “And that one’s a poet. Cristiano’s a model. You sure you all picked the right careers?”

“Hey, I am not just a model. I am a _super_ model.” Cristiano’s teeth are perfectly white against his tan skin as he grins in reply, trying his hardest to keep his face straight before bursting into laughter at himself.

Pepe’s the closest so he smacks his arm for the rest of them. Iker nods in gratitude before Dani calls out Marcelo’s name, everyone’s head turning in that direction as Iker turns the other way. He pulls his headphones back in, but lets the music stay off, welcoming the silence because he can feel James’ words tugging at him. He thinks of Sara, with her long curtain of dark hair falling with a swish over her shoulder as she leans in to touch her mouth to his, the fondness in her eyes as she watches him from across the island in their kitchen, the way she sometimes absently reaches for his hand when they’re walking, thoughtless, instinctive. He loves her, but it is not all of that. His head falls to the side as he gazes out into the uninterrupted expanse of the darkness.

He thinks of the knowing smug edge in Marcelo’s smile as he had remarked, “it’s the now,” and realizes that he was right, that the thought of going home to his own bed neither comforts nor appeals. It helps, knowing Sara will be there, but it does nothing to ease the curl of longing that stretches taut inside of him for Sergio. It must have happened while he wasn’t paying attention, he thinks, like a striker feinting left and all his attention is focused there and suddenly the ball is whizzing past his left ear into the back of the net. He can’t remember when this, whatever it is that exists between them, became as immense, as crucial as it is now, but he supposes it’s only natural. There’s always been a sense of inevitability between them, something kinder than fate and more meaningful than coincidence.

In the beginning, though, he it was simply because they were always there, together. Every joyful moment carries with it the memory of Sergio. Each trophy gleams in its own particular way, feels different in his hands, from the “big ears” of the Champions League Cup to the heavy base that requires a supporting hand for the Copa del Rey to the slender shape of the World Cup as he brandishes it in the air before the whole world. But through it all is Sergio, his voice too-loud as he whoops in Iker’s ear, hands grabbing any available part of Iker’s limbs and slamming their bodies together in carefree celebration, bouncing drunkenly on the goalie’s bed as he lets out petulant whines until Iker resigns himself to going out to a bar or club that is too-smoky and too-packed and everyone is too-sweaty. Sergio is all excess and exuberance and Iker is a man of restraint (off the pitch), but they fit themselves together in these moments until Iker cannot conceive of victory without seeing Sergio’s face, more luminescent than all the metals.

He supposes, perhaps, that he should have noticed it when Martin was born, when the second call Iker makes in the hospital waiting room (the first to Unai) is to Sergio, to hear the elation in his sleep-coated voice when he tells the young Spaniard that Iker has a son. It’s different, a choice he makes to draw Sergio inexorably deeper into the whole of him, the parts untouched by teammate solidarity and nationality and mutual love of football.

He’s there in every nightmare moment as well, a surprisingly gentle hand skimming through Iker’s short hair, lips softly skimming over the sensitive skin underneath his earlobe after Spain is soundly defeated by the Netherlands in Brazil, the heat turning stifling, threatening suffocation for Iker. But Sergio’s touch keeps him afloat.

He’s there even before, when David leaves, when Eva and Lara leave as well, when he finds himself watching the team he’s dedicated his life to playing from the sidelines, when the media frenzy takes a hideous turn against him and Sara, when the scattered losses form a pattern that spell out defeat for him. When he braces himself every time he steps into the locker room, once his sanctuary, his domain, waiting for another attack. When he finds himself there at the end of the day with his face hidden away inside of his hands, shoulders bowed forward in surrender. Sergio is there, strong and silent, steadying Iker with a hand on his back and lifting him up again, tucking him into his side and leading him wordlessly into his own car, taking him home. He’s begins to think of the defender’s house, with its obnoxiously bright artwork and clothes strewn messily about in most rooms and his dog barking loudly at the most inane times, as a home as well.

Sergio is there, always, and when he isn’t, everything else feels out of place, wrong.

Marcelo taps his shoulder and fishes him out of his thoughts, pointing up at the speakers when Iker hears the captain announcing their destination. Their goodbyes are quieter, a pat on the back from Pepe, a one-armed hug from Cristiano, an affectionate embrace from Marcelo. The late hour is warmer in Madrid and he inhales deeply, lets the scent of the night air fill his lungs until it calms something of his anxieties. He knows it’s not enough to ease his troubles as he climbs into the car, gives the hired driver the address to his own house. The streets are blessedly empty as the car heads towards his part of town, only a few others sharing the road with them at this time of night. He’s running a hand distractedly through his hair, trying to decide if a drink is the quickest solution when his phone buzzes inside of his pocket. He squints, wondering if it’s Marcelo trying to bestow more of his unique insight onto him when he catches the name on the screen.

_Sese:_

I’m still up.

It’s instantaneous, the swift flush of anticipation spreading through him like waves lapping at his toes, an intimate hint of something vast and endless. He grasps for propriety, for his usual selflessness, as he responds.

 _Iker_ :

You still have early training.

_Sese:_

I have apples.

It draws out the loveliest pang of pleasure, and something more heady and demanding.

“¡ _Perdón_! Actually, this address, please.” He scribbles down the address on the inside of a gum wrapper and thrusts it towards the driver. It’s not a particularly long drive to La Finca, but Iker finds himself drumming out a random beat over the tops of his thighs. He chews on the inside of his bottom lip, like he did when he was a gangly overgrown weed of a kid at the cantera and they were assigning the first teams. It’s only when the driver pulls up in front of Sergio’s house and he can see the lights on in the kitchen, can make out the vague figuring moving easily around the space, that he stops the nervous gesture.

The key fits into the lock with a muffled click, his hand mid-turn on the knob when he hears Spinee yapping in his direction, nails skittering along the hardwood floor as she charges in Iker’s direction. She tries to stop herself but she’s already too close when her body runs straight into his luggage, dog and rolling suitcase dropping to the ground with a loud thud. Sergio’s laughter fills the empty spaces in the room, rolls over Iker’s shoulders as he looks up at him standing by the archway leading to the kitchen, a hip resting against the wall.

“Hi.”

“ _Buenas noches_ ,” Iker answers politely, the words barely able to escape his throat as it seems to close up in deference to proximity. His eyes stay on Sergio, watches him scratch a thumb across the ever-growing beard, as he crosses to him in even steps.

The younger Spaniard reaches out first, presses the palm of his hand forward until it rests directly on top of Iker’s heart, keeps it there with the same thumb rubbing against the fabric until the beat goes erratic, catching and stuttering at the reverence on Sergio’s face, even after all this time. The corner of his mouth curves upward as he slips his arms up to twine around the goalkeeper’s neck, a hand skimming up along the tiny hairs there before cupping the back of his head. Iker lets his forehead fall forward, allows himself the indulgence of being embraced, surrounded fully by the particular feel that is Sergio. He turns his head slightly to nuzzle into the side of Sergio’s throat, lower to that place where neck and shoulder collide and the smell of his skin is tucked away, breathing out a sigh before dotting the skin with a kiss.

“Congratulations, clean sheet.” Sergio announces against his temple, leaning back to frame Iker’s face in his hands, pressing his lips first to his left cheek, then his right. There’s a second’s worth of pause he looks up at Iker consideringly, as they both waver there on the cusp, both somehow slightly unsure, seemingly shy despite the frequency of such moments.

As always, the defender decides, leaves his thumb there against his cheekbone and steadily draws Iker forward until their mouths meet in the middle, Iker tentative as though part of him believes this will be the time that it ends, as though this will be when everything falls apart, but Sergio’s lips are firm against his. His own are slightly dry and Sergio’s tongue peeks out to lick across the curve of the top one, mouth falling apart at the slightest brush, an invitation that Sergio eagerly accepts and draws a soft whimper from Iker’s throat. His still hands stroke downward, to the edge of the younger Spaniard’s thin t-shirt and slip underneath to rest against the bare skin of his sides, an accompanying noise spilling from Sergio’s mouth into Iker’s that he readily consumes. They pull apart to pant against one another, foreheads lightly touching, eyelids still lowered as their bodies remain attached, hips and chests slotted together.

“I missed you, _nene_ ,” Iker whispers there and Sergio feels the tenderness against his skin before he hears it. He hums in happiness before kissing the corner of Iker’s mouth, feeling the bone-deep weariness in the way Iker leans his whole body into him for support. His hands glide down Iker’s arm before slipping his hand inside the other’s palm, leading him toward the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?”

“You made very serious promises of apples,” Iker retorts, dragging out a stool from underneath the kitchen counter and falling onto it, lazy in the ease of this as he watches Sergio move to stand on the other side of the surface with a chuckle, reaching into a wide-mouthed bowl before presenting him with a perfectly ripened red apple, throwing it over to him in an easy swing. Iker’s bestows a doting smile upon him before taking a huge bite of the fruit, the faint grumbling in his stomach echoing his contentment as he chews.

“How was Liverpool?” Sergio inquires.

Iker shrugs, taking another neat bite in a perfect row on the apple.

“Cold. Rainy. Very gray,” he pauses for a moment to ponder on the experience. “But Anfield was special. It’s much smaller, but the fans, they are so loud, so full of passion, that it feels like it goes on for miles. There’s history there, tradition all the way down into the bricks. Anfield was good. Xabi’s Steven was good also. It is always nice to see someone else who could belong nowhere else but where he is.”

Sergio leans back against the stainless steel of the fridge door, nods in understanding, in agreement.

“We played well.”

Iker gives him a sidelong look that clearly states he might have some reservations about that.

“Those first 20 minutes.” A frustrated shake of the head. “We performed like we were still waiting for Xabi or Angel to sweep onto the pitch and make the right call. They didn’t lack for skill, any of them, not Luka, not Isco, not even young James, but they hesitated the slightest second before deciding how to play it and it didn’t have the same flow as last season. This is not the ideal way to enter into a Clásico.”

Sergio lets out a mirthless huff before pushing himself off the fridge and edging back toward Iker.

“You worry too much. It is okay, you know, to enjoy a victory sometimes.”

Iker keeps his head down, letting the sticky sweetness of the juice coat his tongue. He wants to explain that he is proud, that he’s very glad for the win against one of the most esteemed clubs in all of Europe, but that it all felt less somehow without...he stops that thought there and turns his eyes back up toward Sergio.

“I do. I just...I do not want to go back to that place again.” Sergio imagines he means the Mourinho era, when a singular bad game was heralded by the press as a symptom of an ailing goalkeeper who ought to be put out to pasture. But Iker’s mind is crowded with images from a different time, against Dortmund, of Sergio hunched over on the ground, weight resting on the balls of his feet, one hand on the ground and the other trying to muffle his sobs. The scald of his tears against Iker’s cheek and the side of his neck, his breathing harsh from such acute despair, his torso shaking as Iker knitted them together with his arms solid and safe around his shoulders. He would suffer through a hundred other hardships for the sake of keeping Sergio from feeling such anguish again.

“We won’t, _niño manzana_.” Iker chuckles at the use of his childhood nickname, taking one last bite from the apple before tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Besides, we enter the Clásico with straight wins behind us. I think there is no better way than that.” Sergio moves closer still, until his hip is resting against the counter and he reaches up to stroke the pad of his thumb over the permanent shadows beneath Iker’s eyes.

“You did not sleep well in Liverpool,” Sergio remarks, somehow knowing. Iker lets his lashes flutter downward, lids dropping down before he feels the defender’s lips light as a breeze on his brow, and then lower, rubbing against the deep crevices, a finger tracing over the shell of Iker’s ear. He finally feels it then, the slowly loosening warmth unfurling inside of his chest at Sergio’s soothing touch, spreading through limbs as they go heavy.

“No.”

Sergio’s mouth grazes along the slope of his cheek before turning his head slightly, to let the tips of their noses rub together with a breathy little laugh, lower to discover his mouth and nuzzle into a kiss that carries the sweetness of apples and sentiment, Iker’s hands lifting from his lap to hold onto Sergio’s hips.

They don’t speak again, not when Sergio pulls away and holds out his hand to Iker, not when he leads him through the dark hallway into his bedroom with a single bedside lamp on, the light in the room calm and muted. Not when Sergio’s fingers can’t help but tremble slightly as they tug down the zipper on Iker’s jacket, when Iker tugs his t-shirt up over his head and leans in to nip at the hard line of his collarbone, not when their wandering mouths find their way back to one another again with a breath shared between them. Not when jeans are pushed haphazardly off or Iker’s fingers can’t seem to stop stroking the ridge of Sergio’s hipbones, feeling the bones jutting underneath smooth skin. Not when Sergio slides back onto the bed and guides Iker’s weight on top of him, tired yet eager hands disappearing into boxers gone abruptly too tight, when Sergio’s face goes beautifully pink then red and his eyes are nearly golden in the low light, and Iker’s kisses become more teeth than lips, and there is a sheen of sweat coating their slippery bodies as they grind desperately against one another.

They don’t speak again until after, when Sergio’s head is pillowed against the top of Iker’s chest, a single finger leisurely gliding over the plane of his side, learning the places where muscles melt into softness. Sergio generously spreads kisses over the expanse of Iker’s chest, along the very center where the soft hairs are still slightly sweaty, over the hollow at the base of his throat, against the protrusion of his Adam’s apple with a playful swipe of his tongue. He turns his head just enough so that he can see Iker’s face, can admire the way the corners of his eyes are smooth, a rarity that only occurs in moments like this.

“If you wake up with me when I leave for physio, I’ll make you Cola Cao,” he barters, putting on his most convincing smile. Iker’s laugh rumbles against Sergio's chest in the way that the younger Spaniard has come to love.

“You missed me too,” the goalkeeper remarks, dropping a kiss to the center of his forehead.

They’re quiet again for a few beats, the inside of Sergio’s foot thoughtlessly skimming along Iker’s ankle, Iker’s nose nudging the top curve of Sergio’s ear before the silence is interrupted.

“We’re going to win the Clásico,” Sergio proclaims, Iker’s fingers pausing from where they were drawing haphazard whirls along Sergio’s shoulderblades.

“Oh?” Iker wonders aloud.

“I know. I can feel it, in my bones.”

The lump is there again, tamping down on his words but he doesn’t need them, only to crane his neck forward until he can kiss the promise from Sergio’s lips onto his own. Sergio lets out a little noise of contentment before they break apart, sliding up so that his head can rest on the pillow beside Iker’s, his body still half on the goalkeeper and half on the bed. He runs his fingers over Iker’s scalp, uses just the slightest edge of nails that he knows Iker prefers and continues until his eyes fall closed and stay shut.

“Sleep.”

Sergio doesn’t stop stroking his hair, not until he hears his breathing slowly get deeper, rhythmic. Just as he is there on the blissful verge of slumber, Iker turns his head just slightly, so that he can fall asleep with his lips against Sergio’s pulse.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> I've been wanting to write something featuring them for a while, because all the kissing-before-games and the defending-one-another-in-the-press and the comforting-hugs-while-one-weeps were too much for me to handle, and I happily stumbled upon this prompt. They're just so lovely.


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